Out On The Moors

The cold winter wind, Blows fiercely, across the moorland ground, Quite often such a lonely place, But beauty all around, The Skylark makes this place his home, It feeds on Butterflies, Insects are a tasty meal, And moths, that catch his eye, The heather holds such beauty, It's colours glow with pride, Miles and miles of gorse land, Beneath the moorland sky, The short eared owl resides there, Seeking out his prey, The windswept hills victorious, Created in Gods way, And many men before us, Have walked this place so grand, The moorlands hold such beauty, In this our pleasant land. Jayne Davies